


The Point of No Return

by stardust_made



Series: Sometimes Lost [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the night John faces a drunk Sherlock in jeans. Inspired by the Unaired pilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Point of No Return

**Author's Note:**

> Bringing the archiving of my already written stories to an end in a fitting way by posting my first ever _Sherlock_ fic and its sequel. Not only is this unbetaed, it is also the second piece of fiction I ever wrote. So, apologies for any mistakes, but still, I'll be for ever very proud of it, not to mention fond.:) I hope you enjoy! Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/671.html) at my Livejournal. The follow-up "Sometimes Lost Is Where You Need to Be" will be up tomorrow.

  
In the quiet of his bed John hears some clattering downstairs—it’d be loud enough to get his attention even if he was asleep. He listens closely in the dark and checks the time on his mobile. The illuminated screen tells him it’s 2:07am. No one would make that kind of noise if they were up to no good—any self-respecting criminal has a set of basic skills, so it’s got to be someone who isn’t afraid to be overheard. Mrs.Hudson is easily dismissed. Sherlock’s out in a posh bar, posing as a millionaire’s clueless son in order to get to the bottom—or rather the top—of an underground blackmailing gang. All to do with the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s son—John can’t imagine Sherlock would bother otherwise, but he does like to have useful people owing him. So: Sherlock in a bar; 2:07am; continuous thumps and muffled sounds downstairs; no attempts to keep quiet. His flatmate has come back from his mission drunk, John deduces and instantly shakes his head at how much he’s begun to see the world like Sherlock. In this particular case it’s a waste of time, though, because of the total lack of need for deduction. John’s been waiting for Sherlock’s return from the moment he saw the door close behind his back earlier in the evening.  
  
The knot in his stomach finally loosens and he’s simply grateful the man is still alive. John wanted to go with him. The thought of Sherlock, kidnapped and left at the mercy of unscrupulous people who’d only see him as a spoilt, pretty rich boy to do with as they please, has made John feel extremely uncomfortable all night. But Lestrade said they’d have the place surrounded. Together with the unseen shadow of Mycroft, looking after his reckless brother, John tried to accept that he wasn’t going. What also helped him curse under his breath and decide that he could actually do with an early night and let the pompous git break his neck on his own, was Sherlock’s flat “You look so very proper and earnest. Do you think anyone would buy that you are an overindulged upper-class twit? Stay in, John—I won’t need you tonight.”  
  
A minute into the proceedings in the sitting room John decides it’s time to go and check if his deductions are correct. He switches on his bedside lamp, pushes away his duvet and immediately shivers. He swiftly puts on his jeans and t-shirt, and some socks for good measure. It’s so cold in his bedroom that he congratulates himself for his earlier decision to leave the fire in the fireplace downstairs burning. True, it’s also left unattended; he fought all his common sense and military _Health and Safety_ training. But the likelihood was that Sherlock would come back late, and no matter what the outcome of his evening, if sleep was to happen it was to happen on the sofa. John is a doctor. He knew that a night on the sofa in a very cold room in an old house in London would mean at least three days of having to deal with the most worryingly subdued, yet sullen child on Earth.  
  
 _Or maybe you just didn’t want Sherlock to be cold_ , says some small, irritated voice in his head, _so you left the fire unattended_. How was that for John being so very proper?  
  
One look from the sitting room door and he knows he was right to a tee.  
  
The room’s lit by the flames of some residual fire and it’s still quite warm. Papers are spread all over the floor in one corner. The skull has somehow found itself on the floor, too, and is tilted bizarrely in front of the fireplace. John is treated to a disturbing imitation of an upside down carved Halloween pumpkin with the light leaking through the empty sockets and mouth. The coffee table is pushed away from its spot at an awkward angle. And in the middle of the room on the floor the world’s only consulting detective is on his knees, face partially propped onto the edge of the table.  
  
John is torn between exasperation (When _will_ he have a perfectly normal night in?), amusement, and an odd feeling at the pit of his stomach that he chooses to let go unexamined. He looks at Sherlock for a moment, taking in how different he looks when he’s ‘in disguise’. Sherlock is wearing tight jeans—the novelty of the sight really startled John several hours ago, when Sherlock came downstairs in ‘full costume’ and ready to go. The jeans are dark and very fashionable; the belt on the narrow waist very ‘hip’, and probably worth John’s monthly wages at the surgery. The equally expensive dark purple shirt with matt-silver thick stripes is now slightly tucked out of the jeans. The top two buttons appear undone from the vantage point John’s having; the sleeves are folded unceremoniously up to the elbows. He wonders for the tiniest instant what happened in that bar, his mind cautiously peering into a deeply fascinating alternative universe in which Sherlock is…having fun. What would _that_ be for him? What is he like? Does he tell jokes? Does he lean close to people, does he get flushed, does he get obnoxious (probably), does he slur his ‘s’s just a bit, does he smile his most dangerous smile to women? Does he smile his most dangerous smile to men—  
  
John chooses not to go there. Instead, he continues to look at his friend and wonders if he shouldn’t just leave him there. Or perhaps even hum him a lullaby, so that Sherlock stays asleep in his spot and wakes up the next morning with a giant crease from the edge of the table across his exquisite left cheekbone, neck and head hurting for England!  
  
One green eye flutters and opens, then focuses slowly on John. The lips part and a semi-whisper, semi-croak comes out of them: “John.” The right hand, which is propping the upper part of the body on the floor, trembles and lifts, fingers pointing at John and moving randomly in a strenuous attempt to beckon.  
  
John sighs and walks over to Sherlock. He drops on his own knees to steady Sherlock’s body so that he could lift him off the floor and hopefully drag and dump him onto the sofa in the same stride. Sherlock throws his arm around John’s neck and turns his face to him, inches away.  
  
John really, really isn’t prepared for this. Not for the proximity. Not for the close physical contact. Not for the dark pink traces of rushing blood beneath the skin on Sherlock’s neck. Not for the strong mixture of the finest white wine, the finest male cologne, and the finest, unique personal scent, emitting directly from Sherlock’s body into John’s hungry nostrils. In the shortest instant in which all of these hit John simultaneously Sherlock is looking at him, totally uncharacteristic oblivion in his eyes. John feels shivers run down his spine at the oddness of the sensation to be the sharper one of the two. Sherlock’s eyes are typically dazed—John has seen the look in plenty of other people’s eyes and is certain he’s had it a few times in his own, too. But the almond shapes are still straining to narrow—you can take Sherlock out of his mind, but you can’t take the mind out of Sherlock. It swings its feet hazily, that mind, perched on top of such a very rare lack of inhibitions, and God knows what form of entertainment it would seek in this state—it is insatiable after all…  
  
John shakes himself mentally and is profoundly relieved Sherlock’s eyes are vague enough to be unable to read _John’s_ mind. The eyes aren’t his problem anymore—Sherlock’s ridiculously finely drawn, sinful lips are taking centre-stage and are pouting slightly as if he’s about to whine. And he almost does: “John…Ungh…John.” Except that no matter what he says or how he says it, his deep voice is so masculine, it never really sounds like a whine. John thinks how his own name, his boringly, numbingly common name, never sounds so from his flatmate’s mouth. Then his thoughts go on a tangent, the way thoughts so boldly and infuriatingly do—John’s noticed Sherlock says his name often, too often, without any need for it really; most of the time it’s only the two of them in the room anyway. Sherlock says it as if he _likes_ saying it, every letter coming out of his mouth in perfection—  
  
John’s Super Ego tsks and John snaps back to reality to stare at a very drunk Sherlock Holmes. The top two buttons of Sherlock's shirt are indeed open—John could feel the warmth exuding from the skin, unrestrained by clothing. Sherlock is properly flushed, there’s no two ways about it. His hair is in its usual state, perhaps some strands are more defined, as if someone’s twisted them around their fingers. John is suddenly conscious that in all the months he’s lived here, he’s never touched Sherlock’s hair. _Why would I?_ He crosses himself, annoyed. His eyes spot another strand, a curl almost, that has decided to go extra-wild and do its own thing tonight—it’s hanging slightly damp over Sherlock’s forehead.  
  
And suddenly it’s too much. A curl becomes what tips John's precious balance and sends some denied internal frenzy into a crescendo. John is aware, he is so _aware_ , and he can’t undo it; he can’t change it, he can’t switch it off. It’s terrifying how finite that awareness is. He stares at Sherlock, who’s still looking at John under heavy eyelids. His thin, long eyelashes are dancing their attempts to be the gates of consciousness contained. His palm and fingers are fully spread on John’s bare neck and his mouth, _that_ mouth opens again: “John. Y’smell nice…ofjohn.”  
  
John disentangles himself in one jolt, away from all that skin and scent and neck and darker lips. Away from the familiar, yet newly unguarded catlike eyes, from that maddeningly inviting body, swaying on its knees at John's feet. He grabs his jacket, unthinking. He runs out the room, followed by a small thump and a petulant "John!". He runs upstairs, pushes his feet into his shoes, doesn’t even bother with the shoelaces—and he flees back down the stairs like the building’s on fire, like the temple’s on fire, like _his_ temple’s on fire—blast his body, blast his mind—  
  
The air outside is _cutting_. John starts shaking violently as he turns left and takes the biggest strides he’s ever taken. Regent’s Park’s waiting: dark, quiet and could-be-dangerous, the pond fiercely cold—and John suddenly lets out a muffled sob that sounds like a laugh. He badly wants to jump in the water and stay there until the blood freezes in his veins. He overcomes the gates and thinks that no locks on them, no blackness of a London park in the middle of the night, no cold of a midnight pond in November are a match to the danger that he’s just left behind.  



End file.
